


Like Some Streetlit Angel

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Bad Enochian, Fallen Angels, M/M, Recovery, Slow Burn, figgis the cat - Freeform, oblivious idiots, sasha and grizzop and azu but only for like. A scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: The thing about angels is that they Fall.The thing about angels is that theyFall,hard and screaming towards the Earth, feathers burning to nothing but charred blue shrapnel.The thing about angels is that they Fall, and by the time they hit the Earth, there aren’t enough miracles left in what might serve for a bloodstream, so they lay there, bleeding and broken, shattered jaws and legs and wings spreading out damaged and undivine on the scorched ground.





	Like Some Streetlit Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pitchblackkoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitchblackkoi/gifts).

> Working Title: _listen man sometimes you just gotta be horny on main for wings and also emotional intimacy_

The thing about angels is that they Fall.  
The thing about angels is that they _Fall,_ hard and screaming towards the Earth, feathers burning to nothing but charred blue shrapnel.  
The thing about angels is that they Fall, and by the time they hit the Earth, there aren’t enough miracles left in what might serve for a bloodstream, so they lay there, bleeding and broken, shattered jaws and legs and wings spreading out damaged and undivine on the scorched ground.

* * *

Hamid scrambles out of bed early, because he’s a heavy sleeper, but something hit the ground _hard,_ hard enough that his very bones quaked with the impact. If he’d checked the alarm clock bathing his bedroom in soft green light, he’d have seen that it was the devil’s hour. (Not all angels Fall at three in the morning, but enough of them do that people decided to stick Satan onto their clocks.)

None of this matters, of course, because it ticks on to 3:01 in the morning by the time Hamid is outside, skidding to a halt in his slippers at the edge of the riverbank. “Oh dear,” he breathes, and the words fall past his lips like lead weights in the humid night air.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they don’t ask questions.

* * *

Hamid skitters down, almost slipping on the wet stones and wetter mud, to where the earth is hot under his feet. He doesn’t notice this, of course, because he’s wearing cold, mud-drenched slippers and also a good bit more focused on the broken form in the riverbank. The man (Zolf, who used to be a malakhim, curled up in what was mud but quickly hardened into clay with the heat of his impact) lets out a juddering sob as he clutches at his leg. Hamid looks around for what could have caused such a track in the dirt, decides it must have been a boat or something, and kneels over the man worriedly. “Are you okay?” Hamid asks, because he’s panicked and tired.

_“NO?”_ the man answers, sounding incredulous and pained. (Zolf’s only been on Earth for seventy-three seconds and all of those seconds have been horrible, how in the absolute _fuck_ could he be okay? But it came out as anger, as frustration, as so many feelings that he shouldn’t express because angels are obedient.)

“Right!” Hamid squeaks. “Right, well, um, at least you’re conscious? Um – you’re not bleeding! That’s good, right? Or maybe it’s just internal, oh, dear, u-um—”

(“I’m not bleeding because I don’t have blood,” the angel thinks but doesn’t say. He wasn’t asked.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they accept everything they are given, with no questions or confusion.

* * *

(Zolf’s left leg is scorched and mangled, and he can’t use his wings as a counterbalance because humans don’t generally take well to wings, and he doesn’t really want to go through the whole ‘be not afraid’ thing. The human next to him has one soft arm fixed firmly under his own, more or less dragging him along, babbling the whole way. Zolf might feel bad about being so useless if he could stop sobbing, but that seems a long way off. His leg hurts, and his wings itch from being tucked tightly inside ill-fitting skin, and he can’t feel Heaven in his bones.)

(The human isn’t strong, and the angel isn’t steady, but the al-Tahan lake house is so close to where the angel Fell that one might think it fate.)

(It isn’t, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, the man collapses onto Hamid’s sofa, still crying, still in pain. (Still mourning something he can’t articulate.) The point is, Hamid runs to get some rubbing alcohol from the bathroom cupboard in case the man has any wounds he didn’t see amidst the darkness and the river mud. The point is, the man curls into himself and doesn’t say anything as Hamid looks him over. “Did you get burned somehow?” Hamid asks softly.

“Yes,” answers the man.

Hamid waits for more, but apparently, it’s not forthcoming, so he makes a concerned expression and puts a (very awkward) comforting hand on the angel’s shoulder. “I’ll call 999, okay? A-and you can go to a hospital?” The man looks up at him with dull eyes, tears still dripping down his face, and Hamid’s heart shatters for this poor person who’s so obviously shaken. “What’s your name?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Hamid is suddenly very worried that he’s dragged an amnesiac home with him. “It’s alright, I promise,” he says eventually, thumb soft over a burn on the man’s neck. “I’m just going to call a hospital, okay? Tell me your name if you remember it.”

(The angel swallows around a lump in his throat like sorrow and like anguish and like grief and chokes back tears for long enough to manage, “Zolf.”) Hamid nods and keeps looking at him expectantly. He hopes he remembers his last name, too. “Uh– Smith. Zolf Smith,” the man says after a moment, and Hamid gives him a relieved smile. (A reward for a lie. The angel might throw up.) Zolf curls back in on himself the second Hamid stands up to dial 999. (He wills his leg to stop hurting; there isn’t enough miracle in him for that, but he doesn’t know it yet.) Hamid talks to someone over the phone, slightly less frantic now that he knows the person curled up on his sofa isn’t going to die right that second.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they answer the questions they are asked without thinking, and they ask no questions of their own.

* * *

To say that Hamid is _distraught_ is an understatement. He doesn’t know what happened to Zolf, (he doesn’t know Zolf is an angel) but he feels oddly responsible. It’s a natural human instinct. There are several more months that he’s going to stay out in his family’s lake house and he ought to enjoy them instead of worrying over an oddly-dressed man who probably got thrown off of a boat.

Except Hamid is, always has been and always will be, a worrier. (It’s the undiagnosed anxiety disorder.) So when he gets a call from the hospital, he assumes the worst as he scrabbles at the landline. “Al-Tahan residence,” Hamid greets the tired receptionist on the other end of the line, nervously pressing the ends of his nails into the heels of his palms.

(Angels typically do not have any emergency contacts or any possible infrastructure for when they Fall, and Zolf is no exception. Hamid is the one who brought him in, so he’s the one that the hospital calls when it’s clear that there’s nothing medicine can really do for him that can’t be done in the comfort of someplace less sterile and white. Zolf tried not to clutch at the doctors’ sleeves when they brought him food, tried not to ask why they threw him to the Earth, tried not to beg for forgiveness. It took him a week to understand that he wasn’t in Heaven anymore. It’ll take him longer to stop biting back all the things he wants to say.)

So Zolf (former malakhim, current mess) sits on Hamid’s sofa wrapped up in a soft blanket, blankly accepting the pain killers Hamid gives him. “Do you want some water?” Hamid asks, because he wasn’t expecting to play nurse for a complete stranger, but he’s had to do it for his siblings so often that he knows how it ought to work.

Zolf shakes his head.

Hamid smiles at him, thin and worried, and the angel stares blankly back, prescribed medication laying in the palm of his hand. “You need to take those,” Hamid says gently, and the angel blinks at them. He stares for another half second before Hamid prompts, “You… y-you swallow them?” (The angel does so, wrinkling his face. He should have agreed to some water when the human offered.) Hamid has a furrow in his brow as he frowns at Zolf. Zolf settles further into the cushions and holds the fluffy green blanket tighter to his chest. “Right,” says Hamid, still concerned, “right, okay.”

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are messengers.  
The thing about angels is that they are given missives and then they deliver them, impartial and uncaring, to their recipients.  
The thing about angels is that they are messengers, and their voices are louder than trumpets and choirs when they announce their messages to human ears.

* * *

Zolf isn’t talking. Hamid doesn’t force him to, he just babbles on like he always does, and any direct questions he has for Zolf come in the form of ‘yes or no,’ which Zolf always answers. Besides, Hamid knows that he _can_ talk, and he’s not going to make Zolf do something he so clearly doesn’t want to if he can help it. He figures that maybe he’ll start speaking again once he’s comfortable.

(The angel can’t speak. Or, he can, but that seems too far away. The human – Hamid, he said, one arm around the angel’s shoulders and the other holding tight to his upper arm as he helped him out of the Not-Heaven– never asks him anything that he can’t answer with a shake of his head, so he stays silent. He doesn’t want to make the human throw him out, and snapping at him every time he tries to help Zolf would probably make him very angry very quickly.)

Hamid is doing the dishes (the angel doesn’t like eating, it’s alien and unecessary) when he realises that he’s been talking for the better part of an hour, so he finishes his rambling with a flustered, “—but, then, I suppose no one does.” He shoots a glance over his shoulder at the man on his couch. Zolf stares at him, but Hamid thinks there’s a hint of recognition in his usually-dull eyes, so he smiles.

Zolf smiles back, just the tiniest upward hitch of his lips, and Hamid can’t help the swell in his chest that feels something like pride, or maybe hope, or some warm, fuzzy amalgamate of the two.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are holy, filled with divine light and a need to purge the Earth of evils.  
The thing about angels is that they are holy, and they are soldiers with weapons that pierce the very air they whip up with shimmering wings.  
The thing about angels is that they are holy, and they wield miracles and maces alike, and they don’t ask questions about what they are fighting against.

* * *

(“You’ll call for me if you need help?” Hamid asks, familiar wrinkle between his brows, and the angel nods. Hamid nods back, far less sure of himself. “You don’t have to speak, just– j-just knock on the tiles. I’ll hear.” The angel nods again; the wrinkle doesn’t go away but the human does, walking out of the bathroom and closing the door on his way out. Not completely shut, most likely due to needing to make sure the angel doesn’t do something forbidden. 

The angel growls at the thought and corrects himself. Not completely shut _in case he needs help._ As far as Zolf can tell, Hamid doesn’t have any forbidden things. Or, at the very least, none that Zolf would want to attempt. And he asks, always, at least once an hour, _can I help?_ It’s frustrating. The angel waits a moment, and no booming voice comes to reprimand him, so he thinks it again, louder. It’s _frustrating,_ and being treated like some fledgeling makes him _angry._

Still nothing.

The angel doesn’t know if it would rather the punishment or the continued seperation from Heaven. He supposes he isn’t going to get a choice on the matter, and begins stripping down to take a bath.)

(A mostly human body is… interesting. Heavier on his frame that the angel is used to, but so much more fragile. He pokes at a bit on his wrist, where one of the doctors slid a needle inside just a few days ago for a checkup, and winces when the purple there gives too easily and a soft pain pushes outward. Discolourations are not good to touch, okay. He rotates that hand around and the discolouration hurts at that, too. Right. _Great._ Zolf uses his other hand to grab the washcloth and scowls at the assorted scratches and scars and discolourations as he cleans them.

By the time the water isn’t scalding, the angel has been absentmindedly scrubbing his arm raw for the past ten minutes. His wings still itch inside his skin, ill-fitting and unceremoniously pressing against his spine through planes of existence, and he reaches back absentmindedly to scratch at them before freezing. The door is still closed over, so Zolf reaches over and just manages to snag the pile of his clothes and blanket. He balls them up and chucks it at the door with as much force as he can manage, and the door just clicks shut.)

(The angel isn’t vain.

The angel isn’t vain, but the thought of reaching for his wings and finding them bruised and broken and burnt makes him tense up in the lukewarm water of the bath.

Vanity is a sin, so the angel can’t be vain. But then, obedience is a virtue, so he’s certainly not all that virtuous.)

(It takes more effort than he was expecting to shake his wings out of his spine, and the water is odd on them. Zolf would fly above the ocean, the spirals there sending him higher and higher before he dropped down low enough to feel the waves threatening to submerge him like some ethereal Icarus, but he never actually touched the water, just felt the sea spray against his skin. They don’t seem too damaged, but reaching back to check for any loose feathers makes the frail bit of muscle stretched across his ribs protest violently, and he nearly gets a faceful of bathwater before he stops himself from curling back into a ball. Right. Okay. He can’t work around _that,_ so he’ll just have to tuck them back in until he’s able to move like a functional being again.

Zolf takes care of what he can, rolls his shoulders back and watches as his wings vanish into their normal plane, and then drains the tub.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they don’t sleep, or eat, or breathe.  
The thing about angels is that they are above such Earthly needs.  
The thing about angels is that divinity provides for them, even as it blinds them.

* * *

Hamid looks from his own dinner (almost gone after his second serving) and then at Zolf’s (he hasn’t touched any of it except to nudge it around his plate) and frowns. (The angel doesn’t know what he’s done to make Hamid look so worried again, but he wants the human to stop. Zolf doesn’t need his worry. Zolf is fine.) Hamid asks, “Are you going to eat?” Zolf blinks at him like he doesn’t understand the question at all, or maybe like Hamid is crazy, before slowly shaking his head. Hamid opens his mouth to say something like, _“Zolf, please, you need food,”_ but Zolf must see the look on his face because he starts nodding, instead. Hamid squints at him. “Are you… a-are you just doing what you think I want you to?” Zolf tenses up like a deer caught in headlights.

(Humans are complicated, and Zolf’s never really liked them. They say one thing and mean another, or they mean exactly what they’re saying with an extra meaning tacked on underneath, and Zolf doesn’t understand it or like it. At all. He could read haloes, even if he didn’t know what to do about them, but humans don’t display their emotions the same way, so Zolf doesn’t know if he’s being the right kind of agreeable.)

Zolf looks terrified, but he nods again, like he’s testing for Hamid’s response, and Hamid sighs. “I _would_ like you to eat,” he says softly, “but you can do things that _you_ want to do, as well. You know that, right? Zolf looks down and stabs a brussel sprout with his fork a little more forcefully than Hamid really thinks is necessary. Hamid looks back at his own plate and finishes off his chicken.

(The angel shakes his head. He didn’t know that.)

At least Zolf eats.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are soldiers.  
The thing about angels is that they train to fight the darkness.  
The thing about angels is that they do not have time to be anything but soldiers.

* * *

Hamid is doing the dishes and not talking, just humming something under his breath. “Why are you—” and then a sudden rustling. Hamid nearly drops the bowl in his hands. He turns around — slowly, so as not to spook Zolf — and looks at him. Silently asking him to finish the question. Zolf does no such thing, cowering into the armrest of the sofa with his blanket wrapped so tightly around him that it’s a wonder he isn’t suffocating. 

He looks terrified.

(Angels don’t ask questions, that’s why he Fell, angels don’t ask questions, they accept things for how they are, angels don’t ask questions, the angel shouldn’t have asked the question—)

Hamid places the bowl down gently, and Zolf stares at him in abject fear. “Why am I what?” Hamid prompts softly.

(It’s a trap, it has to be, angels don’t ask questions. He shouldn’t have asked. Hamid is trying to trap him.)

“I’m not going to hurt you, Zolf,” Hamid says. “You can ask anything you want; I won’t be mad.”

(Hamid hasn’t hurt him, Hamid asks _can I help_ and _are you okay_ and Hamid hasn’t ever so much as raised his voice, but this has to be a trap, it has to be.)

Zolf swallows hard and croaks, “You’re singing.”

Hamid smiles, though he quickly attempts to bite it back to something less overjoyed. “I was! It was playing at the grocery store earlier, and it got stuck in my head.” Zolf nods, carefully, like he thinks Hamid is going to snap at him suddenly. And the proof that Zolf doesn’t entirely trust him hurts, yes, but Hamid doesn’t blame him. Whatever happened to him must have been awful, and they’ve only known each other a month. Hamid asks, “Do you mind if I keep singing it?” Zolf shakes his head, and Hamid _beams._

(Zolf tries to smile back, but only once the human’s back is turned. He got an answer. Hamid seemed happy that he almost _asked._ Zolf doesn’t quite know what the words are, Hamid is singing so quietly, but he thinks he likes them. He thinks they make Hamid happy.) 

(He thinks Hamid makes _him_ happy.)

(But that’s how angels are supposed to work, they’re _created_ to love humans, this is just something leftover from his angelic nature. Like his halo, like his wings. Zolf doesn’t want to lose those, but maybe the feeling of lightness in his heart when Hamid smiles him is something he should rid himself of. He doesn’t need to make humanity happy. That’s an angel’s necessity, and Zolf is hardly an angel anymore.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are observant and wise, and they know how to follow their orders.

* * *

“I take these every morning,” Zolf says when Hamid hands him the medicine.

Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting Zolf to sound like when not crying. Less scratchy, probably, but his voice is still low and rough, and Hamid can hear more of his accent now; he wonders where Zolf grew up that gave him such a strong one. “Yes,” he agrees. And then he notices the tension in Zolf’s shoulders, the way his hand shakes around the pills, the way he doesn’t meet Hamid’s eyes. “It’s, um. That one is valium, for your leg, and the other one is… tofranil? I think that’s how you say it, anyway, which is also for pain – well, Google said it was an antidepressant, but it wasn’t prescribed as that, so.” Zolf nods, a little bit of tension leaking from his shoulders, and he dry swallows the pills.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are messengers with booming voices.

* * *

Hamid does the talking for both of them, to be honest, but Zolf doesn’t seem to mind. He even chimes in with a little note of his own, sometimes, which always makes Hamid smile so widely he nearly trips over his own feet and slams his head into whatever hard surface is closest.

(Hamid seems pleased when Zolf talks. The angel can’t bring himself to ask anything, but sometimes Hamid will be sitting on the sofa with him and watching TV and Zolf will grumble, “They could have just taken the train,” or “Richard isn’t right for her,” or, on one occasion that made Hamid laugh so hard he cried, _“Jennifer, no!”_ Hamid is pleased when Zolf talks, and talking still feels like some sort of rebellion, so Zolf is happy enough to test what he can get away with.)

Movie night becomes a thing almost on accident. Zolf seems to like terrible — _awful,_ just absolute rubbish, the worse they are, the more he enjoys them — romcoms, so Hamid rents a few when he goes to get groceries. And when he gets home, Zolf is sitting at the dining room table, looking pensive. He blinks up at Hamid when he comes in. Zolf doesn’t smile, but he says, “Hi,” which is the first time Hamid’s heard Zolf speak to him directly without prompting.

Hamid smiles at him and keeps lugging in the bags. “Hello,” he answers, “I’m home!”

Zolf squints at him, shifting in his chair. He agrees, “I noticed.” And Hamid makes a shallow sound of amusement at that, kicking the door shut behind him. “Carrying all that seems difficult,” Zolf points out in the slow, cautious way he always does. (Hamid likes when he says things. Hamid encouraged him to finish asking a question. Hamid hasn’t hurt him. Zolf swallows past the lump in his throat and the panicked screaming in his heart in a desperate attempt to gather his courage. Rebellion, questioning, but in a way he thinks is safe. He hopes it’s safe.) “Can I help?” And Hamid tries not to jerk his head up, really, but Zolf doesn’t ever _ask_ him anything. Zolf is scratching a hand through the beard he’s started growing (Hamid didn’t give him a razor, and Zolf likes having something to tug at) nervously, but he seems more apprehensive than frozen with terror.

Hamid wonders how many time he’s asked Zolf that same question. “I… oh, um, yes, actually! Here, let me just—” he lowers the freezer bag to the floor and starts rummaging through it— “there was a sale, so I bought something I wouldn’t usually, and I’d like it if you tried it!” He pulls out the blueberry ice cream sandwiches he found while looking for microwave dinners and hands one to Zolf. “I mostly got them for me, but you can have some if you like them.”

Zolf blinks at the white wax-paper wrapping and slowly starts unfolding it. Hamid goes back to unloading all of the groceries, stacking the microwave dinners and the now-opened box of ice cream and also a bag of dinosaur chicken nuggets on top of one another in the freezer. (The contents seep over his fingers and it’s cold and sticky, which makes Zolf grimace. The angel takes a bite of the less-melty bit, and almost immediately regrets it. It’s cold, sending tingles of pain through his teeth. It’s also _sweet_ in a way that he hasn’t really had before, and it’s unexpected. Strange.)

(Zolf takes another bite, though.)

Hamid laughs and grabs Zolf a wet cloth when he sees that the ice cream has melted more or less all over his hands. “Sorry,” he says as Zolf wipes his fingers off, “I suppose I should have waited until it froze back up.” Zolf shrugs. “Is it good?” Hamid asks, taking the now-sticky-and-blue washcloth and throwing it into the washing machine.

Zolf hesitates a moment before nodding. “I like it,” he says, a bit less cautious than he has been. “Thank you.” Zolf doesn’t look Hamid in the eyes when he says that, and Hamid gets the feeling that it isn’t just the washcloth he’s thankful for.

Hamid smiles gently at him. “Of course, Zolf.” (The angel attempts to smile back, because it seems like the least he can do. He asked a question, and the world didn’t end. He didn’t just accept things as they were, he _asked something,_ and Hamid beamed at him like it was the best present he could have received. Zolf wonders how far Hamid will let him go. Zolf wonders if Hamid thinks curiosity is a virtue instead of vile. Zolf wonders if he’ll ever manages to stop seeking some hint of approval.) “A-and I rented some movies? Netflix doesn’t really load out here, but I saw them and thought of you, and I think you’ll like them! I-if you want to watch them? With me? Tonight?” Zolf is still kind-of-smiling, and he nods silently. 

Hamid nods back. “Right,” he says, “right, okay! Good! That’s– th-that’s good.”

(It’s a good movie. Or, Zolf thinks it’s a good movie, at least, though he’s only seen about six of them. There’s a woman who writes letters to a man she’s never met, and by the time the credits roll, they’ve fallen in love. Hamid has his face screwed up, tongue just poking out of his lips the way it does when he’s eating something burnt. “Not good?” Zolf asks tentatively, bolder than he has any right to be.

“Hm? Oh! No, it’s… fine!” Hamid squeaks, lips pressed into a thin smile that’s so clearly a lie that Zolf has to cover his mouth and bite the inside of his cheek. “Are—” Hamid leans forward, pinched look of false cheer vanishing into something like wonder— “are you _laughing?”_ And the angel knows that isn’t allowed, but he can’t _help it.)_

Zolf seems lighter, when he laughs. Late evening sunlight streams in from behind him, almost blinding Hamid with a halo of orange-gold rays, and Hamid has the faint thought that he wishes Zolf were always this happy.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they have miracles at their fingertips.  
The thing about angels is that they could never ask for anything, because they can create whatever they might desire.  
The thing about angels is that they do not desire anything.

* * *

_(“Who the fuck are you,”_ asks the woman who’s just opened Hamid’s door.)

Hamid isn’t awake enough for Sasha to be visiting. He starts trying to get out of the kitchen, but the mug in his lap is far too hot for that. “Who the fuck are _you?”_ Zolf demands before Hamid can get anything out.

“Who’s asking?”  
“I– the door was locked, how did you—”  
“Didn’t stop you!”  
“I live here!”  
“The fuck you do!”

Hamid manages to set the mug on the counter and hop down without knocking it over, so he can stick his head around the corner and snap, “Sasha! Stop swearing!”

Sasha looks up at him. “There’s a hobo on your couch,” she says bluntly, pointing at Zolf like if she gets too close he’ll hit her. Honestly, Hamid wouldn’t blame him for doing so.

“Sasha that isn’t– his name is Zolf, and he does actually live here. You don’t, so why didn’t you knock?” Sasha shrugs. Zolf looks over the back of the sofa like he’s not sure if Hamid or Sasha is more bizarre. (Some random woman comes into Hamid’s house and he’s just fine with this?)

Sasha saunters around the couch like she owns the place, which would be endearing if Hamid were awake. Instead, it’s just tiring. “Hot water’s out at my place.” Hamid pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m gonna use your shower,” she informs him in that way she has where Hamid knows he’s not going to get a say in the matter, and by the time he looks up again, she’s not there.

(The angel raises an eyebrow and asks, “What was that?”

Hamid sighs and goes back into the kitchen. “That’s Sasha; she’s… she does that.” Zolf glares up the stairway in the general direction that Sasha disappeared in. “She’s harmless, really– well, maybe not _harmless,_ but she wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.” Zolf screws his mouth up to keep himself from asking who it is that deserves to be hurt. That’s the kind of question he’s not going to voice.

Instead of making Hamid angry at him, he settles into the cushions and grumbles, “She called me a hobo.”) Hamid frowns and pokes his head back around the corner. Zolf is curled up on his sofa in a worn t-shirt that Gideon left behind at the lake house after one of their parties, and Hamid bought him some one-size-fits-all sweatpants — they only mostly fit — when he’d first started living at the lake house, but… “You’re looking at me,” Zolf points out.

(Hamid only looks at him like That when he’s realised something. Like when Zolf mumbled something about never having a blueberry before. Hamid gave him That look, and when he next came home, he had a whole carton of blueberries. “Do you want to go clothes shopping?” Hamid asks tentatively, taking a few awkward steps closer like he wants to make this a proper conversation.

Zolf shrugs. It’s not like he can really go anywhere with his leg as damaged as it is. “Not really,” and Hamid looks more than a small amount crestfallen.

“Oh,” he says, and his eyes are big and soft and pleading. “Oh, well, that’s fine, then. I suppose I’ll just… I can order you some other things online?” Zolf shrugs again, and the human’s smile is too small for his soft face, the kind of hopeful yet heartbroken smile that makes Zolf bite his tongue so he won’t choke on it.)

Zolf sighs and mutters, “If you can get me out of the house, we can go clothes shopping.” And Hamid can’t help but take a few more quick steps forward to throw his arms around Zolf from behind the sofa. Zolf freezes up almost completely, except for his hands coming up to grip Hamid’s forearm where it rests just in front of his throat, and then Hamid moves back again to give him space. (“Uh,” stammers Zolf, the heat of Hamid’s arms around him dissipating too quickly.

Hamid either doesn’t notice or care about the angel’s reaction, already going back to the kitchen where the coffee is brewing. Zolf puts a hand to his collar bone, and it’s warm under his palm.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they have wings filled with faith and righteousness.  
The thing about angels is that they _have_ faith and righteousness.  
The thing about angels is that they freefall into the world below them and spread their wings feet off the Earth and swoop back into the sky like they could never even think of Falling.

* * *

(Hamid comes back from his errand with a cane, and Zolf glowers at it. He’s fine. He doesn’t need it. He’ll figure out how to walk on his own; Zolf doesn’t even _want_ to go clothes shopping, but he’s definitely not going to if he’s got to walk around with a _cane._

Later that night, Zolf looks around the house and fights his way up the stairs, gripping tight to the railing and feeling more hopeless and angry and lost with every step. Step of the stairs, not step of his own, because getting up an endless staircase with only one leg is more of a hopping-and-missing-and-almost-face-planting-into-the-steps endeavour than it is a leisurely stroll.)

(Zolf wishes he could use his wings.)

(When he finally gets upstairs, he’s too tired to go anywhere else, especially not back down to his sofa, so he leans on the wall and makes his way down to the bedroom that isn’t Hamid’s and collapses onto an empty bed.)

Hamid wakes up to screaming.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are holy, filled with divine light.  
The thing about angels is that they are soldiers.  
The thing about angels is that they do not dream.

* * *

(Angels don’t have nightmares, but it’s not like Zolf is an angel anymore.)

(Zolf knows this is a nightmare, because Hamid left the house for an hour on Monday, and his wings were there when he checked. Zolf knows this is a nightmare, because his wings aren’t blackened with soot and rot. Zolf knows this is a nightmare, because the Navigator is laughing at him, something like sadistic glee flashing in the blinding light of his halo, and the Navigator never laughed. 

Zolf knows this is a nightmare, but he still screams when he feels his halo shattering into horns.

Zolf still screams when his wings _burn,_ when he desperately tries to haul himself back into Heaven and his wings are gone, and his horns are heavier than stone, and his voice cracks out of his throat like something insisting on cruelty.

“What do you want from me?” Zolf screams, and questions aren’t allowed but it’s not like he’s an angel anymore. It’s not like he hasn’t been asking questions anyway. “What did I do?” Zolf begs, scrabbling frantically at the sky that doesn’t want him anymore with claws that make him want to curl into a ball and sob, “You can’t just abandon me, _what did I do?”_ But the sky opens up beneath him and he Falls.)

Hamid grabs at Zolf’s hand and shoulder and pulls him to a sitting position. “Hey,” he says, and Zolf’s eyes are closed but his mouth is open around screams in a language Hamid doesn’t know, “Zolf, hey, it’s okay! You’re okay, I’m here.” 

(The demon can’t fly, he can’t do anything but burn, and the hellfire disintegrates his leg and his hand and his shoulder until there’s nothing left of him but hollow bones and a broken halo.)

Zolf’s eyes snap open and he grips Hamid’s hand so tightly Hamid barely keeps himself from yelping at the pressure. Something loud flutters from behind Zolf’s head, and Hamid has to duck his head against sudden blinding green light. _“Ol lav c g, ol lav, gnay ge eol ol Dobix,”_ Zolf babbles, still caught up in his dream, staring unseeing into the doorway, _“Ds i ol doalim? Ol gnay ge om, **ds i ol doalim?** Ol lav c_ you– please, I just—” Hamid blinks up, eyes squinted nearly shut, and Zolf isn’t breathing hard after his nightmare because he isn’t breathing at all, chest completely still. His face is cast in that same sickly light, and Hamid looks up at the dark curtain behind him to try and make out the source of the rustling and sees—

(The angel comes back to himself clutching Hamid’s hand. The angel’s wings are spread wide, some hopeless attempt to slow his Fall. The human’s eyes are wide, reflecting the fearful light of the angel’s halo, and he is staring. Openmouthed. _Afraid.)_

The wings — is Hamid dreaming? He must be — flutter once more, tucking up tightly against Zolf’s back. The light only grows, brighter by the second, and Zolf lets go of his hand to retreat hastily away from him. “Be not afraid,” Zolf says, thumping into the headboard, “I am– be not– don’t be scared of me,” and his voice breaks around the words. Hamid can’t help the horror in his eyes, but it isn’t because of Zolf. How could he ever be scared of Zolf? The horror is for what Zolf has _seen,_ is for whatever terrible thing he went through that made him think he is so monstrous. “Please, please, don’t be scared of me, I’m not going to hurt you—”

(The human stares up at him with something like terror in his eyes. “You’re an angel,” Hamid whispers. And Zolf doesn’t know how to correct him, how to explain that he is Fallen, how to promise that he isn’t a threat. Hamid stares up at him with something like terror in his eyes and he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”) Zolf looks confused, and Hamid slowly reaches out to take Zolf’s hand in his own once more. Zolf is shaking as he lets him. “Can I help?” Hamid asks softly, and Zolf still looks afraid, and the light — the _halo —_ dims slightly.

“I,” Zolf croaks, sounding rough and broken, “I’m not…” the light dims further, and it’s a deep blue now, though Hamid couldn’t tell you when that shift occurred.

(The human’s eyes are soft in the glow of his melancholy, pupils wide to try and grasp any of the light that Zolf is providing.) Hamid squeezes his hand gently and says, “Let me help.” (The angel wants to ask him of his fearlessness, even in the face of something so undeniably inhuman. The angel doesn’t want to lose him.) Hamid stands from his place kneeling beside Zolf and slips into bed with him. Just shuffles into a bed he last slept in when he was thirteen years old, next to an angel. And Zolf doesn’t cry, but he tugs Hamid in against him and holds him like the world is going to crash down around them. Hamid reaches an arm around and settles a hand between Zolf’s shoulder blades. (The angel tries to make himself smaller, tries to flatten his wings into nonexistence, tries to be human.) There’s no warm skin under the pads of Hamid’s fingers, just the soft, waxy feathers right before they branch out into wings easily the size of two headboards laid out end to end, and he combs through them absentmindedly.

Zolf shudders and presses closer, tightening his grip around Hamid’s waist. Hamid continues, and Zolf slowly relaxes against him until Hamid realises that the light from Zolf’s halo is a soft orange and that it’s reflecting strangely into Hamid’s vision because a dark wing has moved to cover them both like some sort of canopy. Hamid sighs contentedly and closes his eyes, nuzzling into Zolf. “Good night,” he murmurs, and Zolf doesn’t respond.

(Hamid wasn’t afraid of him. Hamid took his hand and laid next to him and brushed fingers through part of him that was so obviously non-human it could have won an award. Hamid didn’t mind any of it.)

(“Yeah,” Zolf manages when Hamid is snoring into his skin, “yeah, it’s… it’s a good night.”)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they were Created to love humanity entirely, selflessly, endlessly.

* * *

Hamid is cold. There are patches of him warmer than others, but he is almost entirely engulfed in something that is _frigid_ against his skin. He groans incoherently and tries to roll away, but the cold catches him and pulls him closer. Hamid blinks open his eyes, decides it’s too bright for that, and shuts them again, burying his face in his cold pillow. “Mmph,” he says intelligently.

(This is the seventh time Hamid has almost fallen out of the bed they’re sharing, and Zolf is getting very tired of it. He’s tired even as Hamid squirms his way closer, even as golden sunlight flickers in from behind him and the human is lit up in what looks like the fond glow of a halo, even as warmth pervades Zolf’s skin after so long being frozen. Zolf is tired because the feeling like warm needles pricking outward in his chest is designed into him, and he’s not listening to what his design has laid out for him. Zolf is filled with exhaustion because otherwise, he might be filled with love.)

The cold’s grip on him slackens some, and Hamid rolls away from it victoriously. Then he’s falling, and his eyes jerk open at the feeling as he tries to cling to the blankets or his pillow or _anything,_ really, to keep himself from hitting the floor. He stops halfway down and Zolf grumbles, “I should just let you go.”

(The human’s eyes widen exponentially, and Zolf can feel his heart speed up where his hands are high up on Hamid’s back. Hamid stutters, “I– s-sorry! Sorry, you can, um, y-you can put me down, now!” The angel put his wings away once he felt calm enough and Hamid was fast asleep, but the sun ringing his head must still look like a halo. It must still look like his undeserved divinity, and Hamid must still be scared.) Zolf sets him on the floor instead of pulling him back in again, and Hamid doesn’t know if it’s a relief or a disappointment. “Thank you,” he manages once Zolf is far enough away for his brain to function again.

Zolf nods and sits up in bed, and Hamid couldn’t explain what it is about the way the sunlight streams in around him, or the scars and white symbols etched across his skin, or the memory of inky darkness stretched behind a halo, but Hamid thinks, _oh._

_Oh, dear._

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are filled with divinity, and they can heal their injuries in a flash of gold.

* * *

Grizzop looks incredibly unamused. “You have a bird,” he repeats dully, holding a mildly agitated black cat in place, “with wings that you think are injured, but you’re not sure because you’ve only ever seen it in the dark, and you can’t bring it in here because you think it won’t do well with people.”

The cat’s tail flicks. Hamid clears his throat. “Yes?” he says, only just realising that he should have come up with a stronger story. But what was Hamid supposed to do? Not try and help? Grizzop’s eyebrow raises. “It’s a very big bird, s-so the anti-socialness might be… dangerous? Like, it might manifest as… as aggression, or something.”

“You have a big, possibly aggressive, anti-social bird with damaged wings. You think.”

“I think.”

“Because you’ve only seen it in the dark.”

“Yes.”

Grizzop’s other eyebrow raises, and Hamid doesn’t like the amount of judginess he’s being subjected to at all. The cat’s tail flicks again, back the other way, and then Grizzop sighs. “Let me finish Figgis’ checkup, and then I’ll give you some pamphlets.” Hamid smiles gratefully. Grizzop cocks his head in a shooing motion, with a, “She doesn’t like you, go away,” and Hamid scampers out of the exam room.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are blinded by divinity.  
The thing about angels is that they are protected, provided for.  
The thing about angels is that they trust their caretakers and would do anything they asked.

* * *

Hamid doesn’t know what he did wrong, but it must have been _something,_ because Zolf won’t so much as look at him. “Do you want dinner?” Hamid asks tentatively — he wonders if angels actually need to eat — but Zolf just huffs and turns away from him.

Coldly, “I’m fine.” Hamid chews at his lip. He sets the plate down in front of him anyway and sits on the other end of the sofa (far enough away that Zolf can’t feel the heat of him. Close enough that Zolf wants to take his hand and try and replicate the warmth of it. Hamid eats, and Zolf doesn’t. There’s a beat of silence and Zolf can feel the human’s eyes on him, so he grumbles, “What?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Hamid asks, and his voice is so soft, so plaintive, so concerned.)

Zolf throws a hand into the air in frustration and snaps, "I'm not a fucking _bird,_ Hamid."

Oh. _Oh,_ that’s what he’s mad about. Hamid thought he’d accidentally blasphemed, or something horrendously grave, and not just accidentally wounded the angel’s pride. Hamid sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Yes, yes, I know, I just—” he squints at Zolf— “wait, since when do you swear?”

Zolf shrugs. He doesn't look at all apologetic, picking up the plate and setting it on his lap as he answers, “Sasha taught me when you were getting pamphlets. For _bird grooming.”_ And he sounds so genuinely huffy about it that Hamid might laugh if he didn’t want so badly to gain Zolf’s trust.

(Hamid reaches out and stops just short of putting a hand on his knee, wrist jerking up and fingers curling into an awkward fist. “I just didn’t know how else to help,” he explains sorrowfully, and Zolf hates how that tone affects him.

The angel nearly shouts back that he _doesn’t need help,_ that he’s not helpless just because he Fell, but that’s so blatantly untrue that he just bites his tongue. “It’s not– you don’t touch someone else’s wings.” It’s a clumsy explanation, if it even counts as an _explanation_ at all and not just an excuse. Angels don’t need help with grooming their wings because they aren’t held in place by physical limitations, but– well, Zolf isn’t quite an angel anymore, is he? He’s bound up in this form, and he can’t reach everywhere he needs to, and it’s _humiliating._

Hamid frowns. “You said they hurt.”

“I said they were _uncomfortable,_ it’s fine. Not like I can fly anyway.”

“If they aren’t groomed, you can’t _fly?”_ The human looks heartbroken, horrified, and Zolf bristles. Hamid must notice because he attempts to school his expression. “I just– well, it doesn’t sound pleasant, Zolf! A-and I’m not an expert on fallen angels, or anything – I mean, I grew up Muslim, of course, I – not the point.” He takes a steadying breath in, and his face is set firmly when he says, “Let me _help._ Please.”) 

Zolf sighs, looking away from him. “I,” he starts, and then huffs annoyedly. Staring resolutely at his plate, he snaps, “Okay, sure, whatever. Just don’t be _weird_ about it.”

“Why would I be—”

“Because you’re weird about most things.” Hamid frowns at him. Zolf raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to disagree. “Sasha made a joke the other day, which I’m pretty sure isn’t something she does much of, and you walked straight into a wall.” Hamid frowns harder. He considers pointing out that he didn’t walk _straight_ into the wall, and that it wasn’t Sasha’s bad pun but Zolf’s resigned laughter that made him do so, but– well, that’s hardly anyone’s business but his own.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they shine with divinity, blinding all who dare look upon their holy light.

* * *

Zolf has not stopped grumbling once, and Hamid is reaching the end of his patience. He’s trying to help him because god knows Zolf won’t ask for help of his own volition, but if Zolf keeps complaining, Hamid might just snap at him to shut up and be still so Hamid can actually do something useful. Not to mention the fact that Zolf hasn’t even gotten his wings _out,_ yet, instead bickering with Hamid about everything from the bed — too nice, Zolf didn’t want to get feathers all over it — to the light — didn’t Hamid think it was too dim to see? Maybe they should do this tomorrow, when it was brighter — and Hamid is deeply unimpressed with his stalling.

(The angel knows his wings are still there. He’s sure they’re still there, he would have felt it if they weren’t, but Hamid hasn’t _seen_ them. He’s seen the vaguest outline of them, more hazy outline than actual manifestation, and Zolf is terrified to know what they really look like. Zolf is terrified to hear disgusted noises from his– from the human. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and he doesn’t know if he can bear to know for certain that Hamid is repulsed by his inhumanity.) _“Zolf,”_ scolds Hamid eventually, more exasperated than anything, and Zolf tenses. “Please,” he says, gentler now, “let me help you. That’s all I want.” (The angel wonders if Hamid knows exactly what those words do to him. The angel wonders if Hamid knows that his commands are so softspoken that following them feels like an inevitable instead of an imperative.) 

“Fine,” Zolf grumbles, shrugging out of the jumper Hamid bought him, “fine, just don’t pull all my feathers out.” Hamid is going to answer that _obviously_ he’s going to be careful, but there’s suddenly a lot more bared skin than Hamid really knows how to deal with, and the words disappear like a blown-out candle. And then Zolf has wings. Or, well, he’s always had wings, and Hamid just hasn’t noticed until now, but the point is—

(Hamid goes silent when his wings manifest, and it’s an effort not to curl into himself. “Oh,” the human breathes after a long, tense moment, and Zolf bites back something like tears. It’s a stark reminder that his very existence is alien to Hamid, that no matter what, he’ll always be so strikingly inhuman that the sight of him makes Hamid lose his words. “They’re so– is it alright if I—” his weight settles on the bed, near but not on the angel— “can I touch?” The angel nods wordlessly, and) Hamid’s fingers sink into the blue feathers, even softer to the touch than he was expecting, and Zolf shudders. “Did that hurt?” Hamid asks, his touch lightening even though he can’t bring himself to move away completely.

Zolf shakes his head. Hamid swallows and tries again, starting from the top of the wing and carefully trailing his fingers along the length of it. It’s beautiful. _Zolf_ is beautiful, every second of every day, but right now he is– god, Hamid doesn’t have the words. How could he have words? There’s an angel in his bed, wings laid out on the comforter, dark hair spread on the pillow as if arranged there by a lover’s hand. “You can—” Hamid yanks his hand back, half at the thought and half at the intrusion, and Zolf makes a small, indignant noise— “do that, I guess, _or,_ you could dig your fingers in and actually sort me out instead of just petting me.” Hamid splutters for a brief moment, and Zolf pushes himself up on his elbows to glare at Hamid. (It’s easier to play at anger than it is to acknowledge how much it must frighten Hamid to be this close to him.) Hamid frowns at him, and then keeps frowning at the back of him when Zolf settles into the spaces between his folded arms. Okay. Right. Dig his fingers in. Hamid can– he can do that; it’ll be fine.

It fades into a task, the longer Hamid works. It’s just something he needs to do, the way he needed to help the twins wash their hair when they were really young, and he can almost forget that he’s carefully carding his fingers through the wings of an angel that he is maybe, possibly, _kind of_ infatuated with. He straightens the feathers and pulls out the ones that come loose, careful to be gentle when he gets to a spot that makes the wings pull taut underneath his hands. “Nearly done,” he promises gently, and Zolf grunts vaguely in acknowledgement. 

He scratches his fingers through that sensitive spot, careful not to hurt him, and all of the tension leaves Zolf at once. He doesn’t make a noise as he melts into the comforter, but Hamid can feel the air leaving his lungs in a rush. Hamid doesn’t actually know what angel wings are supposed to look like when they’re correctly groomed, so he keeps going, lightly stroking his fingers through the downy fluff he can feel beneath the longer feathers, and Zolf doesn’t tell him to stop. Eventually, Hamid shifts away, moving from his place straddling Zolf’s lower back to sit down a few inches away. “All good!” he proclaims, expecting Zolf to continue grumbling and then never mention it again.

What Zolf actually does is _whine._ It comes out a bit rough, as if he’s only just woken up, and his wings shift like they’re trying to reach for Hamid. There is an angel, shirtless, facedown in his bed, whining and trying to get Hamid to keep touching him. What kind of reaction is he supposed to have? Hamid’s only human, okay, and a _little_ bit of sin is _probably fine_ in the grand scheme of things. He really, _really_ hopes a little bit of sin is fine.

(The human’s breath stutters in his throat. “Sorry,” the angel manages, and the wings fit into their space much easier now that they’ve been brushed out. Zolf pushes himself up, and when he rolls his shoulders back, his spine makes an interesting cracking noise that he hopes doesn’t mean he’s broken this body already. He grabs for the abandoned jumper and pulls it on as fast as he can manage. “I got—” _carried away,_ his brain supplies, because that’s what it felt like; he was soaring again, carried through the clouds, accepted and loved and— “distracted.”

“Right,” Hamid stammers. “Right, yes, I– um, I’m going to go have lunch. Do you want help down the stairs, o-or?” The angel doesn’t point out that Hamid’s already had lunch. He can see an escape route when it’s right in front of him. So the angel just shakes his head, and Hamid smiles almost gratefully at him as he rushes down to the kitchen. 

He waits for the distant click of the stove turning on before collapsing back into the bed and hiding his face in a pillow.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are made of unending light and unconditional love.

* * *

Only the outlines of the nightmare are there when Hamid’s eyes open, but it shakes him so badly that he spends a solid half-hour convincing himself there aren’t long-fingered horrors lurking in the shadows of his room. Once he’s finally managed it, he goes downstairs for some water, hoping to clear his mind.

(Something is wrong.)

He pretends his hands aren’t shaking as he turns on the tap and fills a cup. He pretends tears aren’t building in his eyes. He doesn’t mean to wake Zolf, but when he turns around to go back to bed, the angel is standing awkwardly in the door to the kitchen, one elbow braced on the counter for support and the other outstretched. Hamid drops the plastic cup of water on the ground and buries himself in Zolf’s arms. “Hey,” Zolf murmurs, “hey. Hi, Hamid.”

(Zolf couldn’t explain in a million years how he ended up holding Hamid against his chest and trying to go to sleep beside him, but it sure does seem to be what happens. Hamid’s hand is kept from his bare skin by the soft shirt he let Zolf pick out, but it goes to the same place it did last time — drawing slowly up and down along his spine, just between where his wings would meet.

_Carried away,_ Zolf thinks again as the human finally falls unconscious against him. _He carries me away.)_

* * *

The thing about angels is that their love keeps them holy, keeps them pure, keeps them clean.

* * *

Hamid shows up late to the coffeeshop – it was difficult to tear his eyes off of Zolf, even if waking up to him has become routine – and spots Azu sitting in a corner booth, waving to him from above her book. He waves back, runs a hand through his hair to tidy it, and gets into the queue for a drink.

**(Zolf,** says the voice of a seraph, and Zolf nearly falls off the sofa. **Your Fall has been rescinded. Rectified. Your faith and love for humanity has been weighed against your curiosity, and you have not been found wanting.)**

“Sorry,” Hamid says with a laugh as he sits down opposite Azu, “it’s been so long since we last caught up!” She nods seriously, placing her favourite pink bookmark – the one Hamid sewed her as a birthday gift – back between the pages of her novel and closing it. Hamid waits for her to get her things in order before smiling and asking, “Well? How have you been! How are things with you and Sasha?”

**(Sort out your affairs here. You have a month. Then, return home.** There’s a moment of silence as Zolf gapes at the source of the light. He doesn’t think he ever talked to her in Heaven, but the haloes woven between their bones and in each of her many eyes glow with fondness and joy. The seraph adds, more gently than before, **You will be welcomed with open arms.** And then, the light blinks out. The angel wraps the shawl tighter around himself and stares blankly at the empty television screen in front of him. Return home. Heaven wants him back.)

They spend hours in the coffee shop together, catching up on Azu’s partners, Hamid’s life back in London, how the town has been since he last visited. It’s lovely. Hamid’s missed Azu deeply, and they fall back into sync with one another so quickly that he can hardly believe it’s been half a year since they’ve last talked. She leaves first – Cel is making dinner, and Azu needs to make sure they don’t blow up the kitchen – and Hamid spends a few more minutes just drinking in the surroundings.

He’s missed this place.

(“Zolf?” The angel looks up obediently, and Hamid sits down beside him almost immediately, a hand clutching tightly to his shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened?” His neck is sore, the angel realises. He must have been very still for a very long time for it to ache the way it does.

He was– he was asked a question. He has to answer. “Heaven wants me back,”) and his voice is so flat that Hamid’s heart breaks. That must be why it shatters, that _has_ to be why he can feel the jagged shards of it digging into the inside of his ribcage; Hamid has no claim to this. Zolf isn’t here for Hamid, he’s here because of a mistake on Heaven’s behalf, and now he has a chance to go back.

(The human smiles. “That– that’s wonderful, Zolf!” And it must be wonderful, right? That’s what he was told. That’s what the light in Hamid’s eyes says. Returning to Heaven will be wonderful. It isn’t returning home, though, not anymore. His home is out on Hamid's sofa watching TV, and his home is lying in bed early in the morning and watching the sunlight filter across his sleeping human's form, and his home is trying not to melt as Hamid carefully fixes up his wings, but Heaven doesn't know that. Hamid doesn’t know that.

“Right,” the angel agrees.) 

“Wonderful,” Zolf agrees. 

Maybe the shock of it hasn’t worn off yet. His eyes are still dull. He hasn’t looked this vacant since the beginning, and Hamid wonders if maybe that’s how angels are supposed to be. Dull and glazed-over and agreeable. The perfect servants. Hamid has the greedy thought that Zolf was better off being his own person, watching trashy romances and giving Hamid teasing looks whenever he nearly fell out of bed and getting far too curious about far too mundane things.

He pulls Zolf into a hug so he doesn’t have to think about how greed is a sin.

* * *

The thing about humans is that they love just as deeply.

* * *

There isn’t a heartbeat where Hamid lays his head against Zolf’s chest.

* * *

The thing about humans is that they are determined and hopeful and strong.

* * *

Hamid ends up rolling away from Zolf’s arms to get away from the uncaring, implacable ice of his skin.

* * *

The thing about humans is that they really aren’t given much of a say in the affairs of angels.

* * *

(Hamid is holding his hand, and it’s almost gentle until Zolf feels the wetness on his cheeks. Another nightmare, then. He doesn’t remember this one, which is odd. Usually, he can recall every minute detail of his Fall. “Zolf,” Hamid whispers, and the name doesn’t sound holy on his lips, but it’s more like heaven than any plane could be to him. “Zolf, what’s happening?”

Zolf opens his eyes.

Zolf opens his eyes.

Zolf opens his eyes.

“Oh– shit, Hamid don’t—” but Hamid’s smart, he’s already shielded his eyes, and Zolf closes the celestial remnants that have found their way back into his skin. The wings don’t fold, so Zolf just covers Hamid’s eyes with his own hand as he lets them settle, then deals with them one set at a time. “Sorry,” Zolf says softly, “it might be a while until you can look again.” Hamid sets his hand over Zolf’s and leans a bit closer. Zolf bites down a smile and hides away the rest of his manifestation until he’s almost entirely human-looking again. “Alright.” He takes his hand back slowly and Hamid carefully cracks an eye open.)

Zolf’s hair is white. Not blindingly so, but it’s so clearly unnatural it steals Hamid’s breath. It matches the symbols on his skin. It matches the light emanating from his damaged leg. “What—” Hamid reaches for it, but Zolf catches his hand.

“It’ll burn you,” he warns, “badly.” Hamid pulls his hand back, and Zolf lets go so he can run his palm over the almost-fluorescent light.

“Does it hurt?”

Zolf thinks for a moment, and his voice is still haggard when he answers, “No.” He gives Hamid the tiniest of grins and says, “Guess I’m holy enough for it.”

Hamid’s heart has no right to sink as far as it does. “That’s good,” he says, hoping it’s convincing. _Too holy for me,_ whispers the selfish voice of his conscious.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they do not need hope, because they know how things will be already.

* * *

(“I just don’t understand it,” Zolf mumbles to himself while Hamid orders their food. The new leg means that he can walk easier, now, even if he has to wear long trousers to hide the glow. Hamid thought they should celebrate his last few weeks on Earth by going out and doing all of the things Zolf hasn’t gotten to experience yet, and first on the list was go for fast food. Walking is still odd, so Zolf sat down in the booth at the first opportunity, and Hamid agreed to get something he thought Zolf would like. “‘Faith and love for humanity.’ But I don’t– I don’t even know _humanity!”_ The little girl in the booth in front of him turns around to shush him. Her parents apologise for her, and Zolf gives them a smile and a shrug. He sighs once they’ve turned back around, tapping his fingers on the table, and whispers, “I just know _Hamid._ I don’t love humanity, I love—”)

Hamid sits down opposite Zolf and passes him the cup of soda. “Oh– too many people?” Zolf starts, and Hamid doesn’t know if it’s the shitty lighting or the divinity that leaves a silver ring around the edges of his pupils.

“Wh– no. No, I’m fine. It’s– I’m not Sasha, I can handle crowds.”

Hamid shrugs and takes a sip of his own water. “Sasha can handle crowds if she stabs someone; I’d just like some warning if you’re about to jab a plastic fork in my hand.” Zolf laughs and pushes the little container of plastic forks towards Hamid’s side of the table like an offering, and Hamid huffs a laugh as well. (Hamid isn’t holy, but maybe that’s why his smile feels like home. Hamid isn’t holy, but there’s gold in his eyes and his heart and his soul and it makes Zolf break a little bit. Hamid isn’t holy, but Zolf would worship him if he had the words. As it is, he settles for making him laugh like it’ll keep him warm when he’s back in the clouds.)

* * *

The thing about angels is that they are one and the same, multiplied across their realm and utterly indistinguishable.

* * *

(Zolf is woken up, and he groans, closing his eyes against the light. True tiredness is something he doesn’t really come by, so he settles into it, hiding his face in his pillow, still warm from human body heat. He thinks he hears Hamid sigh somewhere close by, but he’s far too engrossed in getting back to sleep to examine it too closely.

Zolf is woken up again a few moments later by a hand on his shoulder, comforting warmth sinking into his skin. “Good morning,” Hamid whispers, and Zolf blinks his eyes open.

“Mornin’?” He responds, and Hamid beams at him. “What– hi?”

“Breakfast in bed,” Hamid explains, and Zolf squints at him. Sure enough, there’s a little tray with scrambled eggs, pancakes, two little glasses, and a carton of orange juice waiting for them both on the bedside table. “You always wake up earlier than me, so this was kind of a mess to plan, and the kitchen is probably going to smell like smoke for a little longer than it should, but—”

“When did you sleep?” Zolf asks, sitting up some, and Hamid stammers. Zolf raises his eyebrows. _“Did_ you sleep?”

Hamid gives him an awkward smile and lies, “Yes?” Zolf scoffs and pulls Hamid back into bed, ignoring his protests.

“Too much of your to-do list is food, and not enough of them are sleep,” Zolf grumbles, and Hamid makes a disapproving noise, but he relaxes into Zolf’s side. Sleep is even easier now that he’s warm, and Hamid must be so exhausted that the insomnia finally drops away, leaving him soft and snoring next to Zolf in bed.)

The breakfast is room-temperature (which means the eggs and pancakes are too cold, while the orange juice is too warm, even though they taste fine to Zolf) by the time Hamid wakes up, but Zolf refuses to let him get out of bed to microwave it or get any ice cubes. “For a paragon of virtue, you’re very lazy,” Hamid teases, but he doesn’t try to remove himself from under Zolf’s arm as he cuts up his pancakes, and Zolf just shoots him a grin.

He has no right to look as beautiful as he does when he’s pleased with himself.

* * *

The thing about angels is that they Fall.

* * *

Hamid is home when the angel comes back. She isn’t blinding this time, which Hamid supposes is good, because he almost felt his atoms start rending when Zolf got his own holiness back. He doesn’t know what a higher-level angel’s true form would do to him. **“Is everything settled?”** They ask, and their voice still hurts Hamid’s ears. She must notice the way he yelps and curls away because she clears her throat and repeats, “Is everything settled?”

“Yes,” says Zolf, the same automatic response that makes Hamid’s insides ache.

“Good,” the angel says, void of all expression. Their halo is the same reddish gold of a sunrise. “Let us go.” She turns smoothly, not whirling on a heel so much as simply rearranging the world around her in the way she wants it to be, and Zolf stands up after her. Hamid smiles at the back of his head and prepares to shield his eyes for when the pair of them unfurl their wings and fly back to Heaven.

(“Why?”

Ameline stills. “I beg your pardon,” they say without turning back to him.

Zolf levels a defiant glare at the back of their head. “I said, _why?_ Why should I go with you? Why should I go back to heaven after you threw me down to Earth?”)

“Zolf—”

(Ameline whirls, her robes flaring, and Zolf doesn’t know if it’s instinct or intimidation that makes his wings spread out behind him. “Asking questions—” she hisses, halo flashing deep green with anger, and Zolf doesn’t let her finish.

_“Is why I Fell in the first place,”_ he snaps, “I know! And I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon. So _why_ won’t you just go back and tell them that I’m too far gone to be a good angel?”)

“Zolf,” Hamid repeats, but it’s even softer than before.

(Ameline snarls, but they don’t try to change his mind. They vanish in a blink, and Zolf can’t help the way he deflates. “Sorry,” he says, but he can’t look Hamid in the eye, “sorry, I know you were excited for me to leave—”

and Hamid hugs him.) It’s a bit awkward, Hamid will admit, because he didn’t want to be not touching Zolf for any longer than necessary, so his arms are tight around Zolf’s waist and his face is smushed into his back, between his shoulder blades, where the wings meet. “You can stay,” Hamid promises, and he tries to remember that greed is a sin but all he can think about is that _Zolf is still here_ and everything else can be dealt with later, “you can stay with me for another month, or a year, or for forever, or– I just want you to be happy.”

Zolf starts to peel Hamid’s arms from around him, and Hamid takes a hasty step back, but he’s caught and pulled back in, and Zolf buries his face in Hamid’s hair. “You make me happy,” he murmurs, and Hamid’s breath catches in his throat, “so. I, uh. Guess I’ll take you up on that forever.” (Zolf isn’t exactly an angel, not anymore, not after snubbing his one chance at redemption, but he can still feel love. And it’s pouring off of Hamid, so bright and so concentrated that Zolf is glad he doesn’t have to breathe, because he’s quite forgotten how to. “Hamid.” Hamid draws back, just the tiniest bit, arms still around Zolf’s waist, and he is _golden._ Questions are why he Fell, questions are what tore him apart, what gave him nightmares and ruined his chance at ever going back to Heaven, but he doesn’t think this one could ever hurt.)

“Can I kiss you?” Zolf asks, and Hamid’s already pulling him in.


End file.
